


Whatever the lady wants

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Series: Occasional flashes of competence [9]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, More workplace awkwardness, More yoga, Nicola's POV (finally), Possible alien conspiracies, families are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: "She wonders whether all those people that think she's so bloody smug would leave her alone if they knew what her life is really like. But she’s already been in the public eye long enough to know that they'd probably just mock her even more.Haha Nicola Murray’s life’s a mess and haha she’s brought it all on herself and haha she deserves everything that she gets. She’s a useless wife and a useless politician and a useless mother."In which Nicola's family life gets very complicated and Malcolm tries to contain the fallout. Rated M for canon-typical language and references to drug abuse and violence.





	1. When you're down and troubled

**Author's Note:**

> By popular demand, here's an insight into what's going on in Nicola's world at the moment. This story will make a lot more sense if you've read the last couple in the series.

“I don’t want to play stupid cricket! It’s fucking boring and Tilly’s rubbish at it, and you’re only being nice to us because everyone found out what a cunt you are and now you’re worried Mum’ll throw you out!”

“Ella!” James shouts, “don’t swear!”

“I’m not rubbish!” Tilly protests.

“What’s a cunt?” asks Josh.

Nicola groans and sinks a little lower into her chair. She knows she should intervene – James’ nascent parenting skills don’t extend to handling one of Ella’s tantrums – but she can’t face it this evening.

“Don’t use that word Josh,” says James, going for the easy fix rather than failing to tackle what Nicola considers is the obvious priority – Ella’s unacceptable comments.

“Why, what does it mean?”

“Aunty Jean says Mum should have thrown you out ages ago,” ploughs on Ella. “She says you’re a fucking waste of space.” Nicola resolves to subject her sister to a long and drawn out death the next time they see each other. 

“Don’t shout at Daddy, Ella,” pipes up Tilly. “It’s rude.”

“Daddy, what does cunt mean?”

“Josh!” James’s voice is tense. She closes her eyes and prays that someone makes a dramatic exit soon. Neither James nor Ella have a long fuse - surely one of them will snap and storm off to sulk. “I told you not to use that word. Any of you. And Aunty Jean should keep her opinions to herself!”

“Why don’t we all play cricket?” Tilly pleads, ever the peacemaker. “You can bat first if you like Ella.”

“I don’t want to play cricket you retard. I fucking hate you all!” Ella is still yelling, at a volume that Nicola is certain carries inside the neighbours’ houses. She hopes they’re impressed by the way that her daughter’s vocabulary has expanded since she’s been going to her hellhole north London comprehensive. “I’m going inside!”

Nicola rests her head against the chair back as Ella storms past her into the house. If she sits very still, hopefully they will all think she’s dozed off and slept through the outburst. She has a splitting headache and a persistent sense of nausea that's probably due to the combination of drugs and alcohol she'd taken the previous evening. Nausea which hasn’t reacted at all well to Josh and Tilly’s insistence that she try everything that they had prepared for the evening’s barbecue. Spicy chicken, slabs of barbecued halloumi, an olive oil drenched Greek salad and home-made garlic bread were not the light meal her stomach had been hoping for. Washing it down with a second glass of white wine probably wasn't sensible either.

“Right, well the three of us can still play cricket. A batter, a bowler and a fielder’s all we need.” James sounds shaken, but Nicola is impressed that he’s trying to soldier on. He might be useless with teenagers but he’s always been quite good with younger children. When he makes the effort.

The sound of the bat hitting the ball and Josh and Tilly shrieking with laughter as they play is soothing.  The sun still has warmth in it and she finds herself dozing until Josh hurls himself into her lap.

“Oof,” she groans as he knocks the wind out of her. “What do you want, you monster?”

“It’s bedtime.”

She looks at her watch. It’s already eight o’clock. “Eugh, so it is. Come on then.”

“I'll get them ready for bed,” says James, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I'd say you look dead on your feet, but I'm not sure you can even stand.”

She nods gratefully. She wants nothing more than to crawl into her own bed and stay there until the weekend. “Thanks." She looks at the children. “I’ll come up and say goodnight when you’re both in bed.”

Josh clambers off her, running towards the house with a shout of “I’m just going to park the Batmobile.”

James follows him with a good-natured grimace, but Tilly loiters behind. Nicola recognises that she wants to say something but isn’t sure how. “Come and sit here for a minute,” she tells her, guiding her onto her lap. “I need a cuddle – I missed you while I was away.”

Tilly wraps her arms around Nicola, burying her head against her neck. “Me too. I’m glad you’re back Mummy.”

Nicola strokes her hair – silky and blonde and so completely unlike her own. “Is everything all right?”

Tilly’s fingers tighten their grip on Nicola’s dress. “I don’t like it when people fight.”

“Who’s been fighting?”

“Ella and Daddy. And Katie and Daddy. And Ella shouted at Marta.”

Nicola sighs. None of it comes as a surprise, but she’s increasingly unsure what to do about it. She’s forgiven James and he’s making a real effort, but somehow it seems to have made the older girls resent him more, not less. “I’ll try and talk to them about it, love.”

“I can’t make them stop,” Tilly says, and she hears the tears in her voice.

“Oh Tilly,” Nicola says, kissing the top of her head. “No one could. It’s not your fault.”

James appears at the patio door. “Josh is doing his teeth Tils, time for you to get ready too.”

Reluctantly Tilly pulls back. Nicola kisses her cheek. “Go on. I’ll come and say goodnight when you're in bed.”

James throws her a questioning look as Tilly trudges towards the door. _I’ll tell you later_ , she mouths.

While James is getting the younger children ready for bed, she knocks back a couple of ibuprofen with the last of her wine and clears the table. Ella comes into the kitchen as she’s stacking the dishwasher. “I’m hungry.”

“You’ve just eaten!”

“I know.”

Nicola frowns at her. “Have some fruit. Or a yoghurt.”

“There’s none left. Dad hasn’t been shopping.”

"Breadsticks?"

"We finished them yesterday."

She sighs. “You can have a bag of crisps. Just this once.” She climbs onto a chair and reaches up to the high shelf where they keep all the things the children aren’t supposed to help themselves to: crisps, biscuits, spirits.

“Can I have two?” asks Ella when Nicola hands her the packet.

“No! You should have had more at dinner. There was plenty of food.” And from what she remembers, Ella ate a good meal – she’d even had seconds.

Ella tucks the crisps in the pocket of her hoodie. “I need some money for my Oyster card.”

“I gave you twenty pounds on Monday! What happened to that?”

“I lost it.”

Nicola hasn’t raised four children without learning to recognise when one of them is lying. “Have you spent it on something else?”

“No, I dropped it.”

“Ella.”

“Honestly! I think it fell out of my pocket when I got my phone out.”

Nicola lets out a long, controlled breath. “You can take twenty pounds from my purse—”

“Thanks Mum.”

“ _If_ you apologise to Tilly for what you said to her earlier. She's really upset.”

“Okay.”

She thanks God that for once Ella is willing to do what she asks without a fight. The last year’s been hell. The sooner they can get her out of that school the better. “Go and do it before she goes to bed.”

Ella slopes off. Nicola finishes loading the dishwasher and washes the olive wood salad bowl in the sink. Smug, middle class tablewear, as Malcolm would no doubt point out. To go with her smug middle class house and her smug middle class family. She wonders whether all those people that think she's so bloody smug would leave her alone if they knew what her life is really like. But she’s already been in the public eye long enough to know that they'd probably just mock her even more. _Haha Nicola Murray’s life’s a mess and haha she’s brought it all on herself and haha she deserves everything that she gets_. _She’s a useless wife and a useless politician and a useless mother._

She goes up to the room that Josh and Tilly share. They are both in bed, scrubbed pink and drowsy in their pyjamas.

“Did Ella come and see you?” she asks Tilly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Tilly nods.

“Did she say sorry?”

She nods again.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod, more hesitant this time. “Are you going away again, Mummy?”

“No sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere except bed. You get some sleep.”

She leans down to kiss her and Tilly mutters “Night night.”

Tilly’s eyelids are already dropping as she moves away from her bed, but Josh’s are wide and shining. She recognises the sheen of over-excitement. It’s hardly surprising after two days of Bat caves, cricket and treats. James has almost certainly given the kids sweets at some point, despite her strict instructions to the contrary.

“What are you so excited about, monster?” she asks as she sits down next to him.

Josh half sits up. “I’ve worked it out, Mummy.”

“What have you worked out?”

“The Daddy that was here before, he wasn’t my real Daddy.”

Nicola stiffens. Of all the things he might have come out with, she definitely hadn’t expected that. “What do you mean?”

“Grumpy Daddy that wasn’t here very much – he was an alien,” says Josh eagerly. “And then Mr Tucker catched the alien and saved Daddy - the day he came to our house really early and we had to go to Granny and Grandad’s.”

She blinks, trying to follow the child logic. “So you think…you think aliens kidnapped Daddy and pretended to be him?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding earnestly.

“Because Daddy was grumpy?”

“And because he never played with me, but he does now. And before he was always shouting at you.”

“Before the day Mr Tucker came to the house?”

“Yes,” says Josh again, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s okay Mummy, I know it’s supposed to be a secret.”

She sighs. She’s not sure quite how far to go in unpicking this fantasy. “Josh, you do know that Daddy loves you, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When he’s grumpy it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love you. It’s nothing to do with you at all.”

“I know. It’s because he wasn’t really Daddy.”

She rubs her eyes. “Sometimes even real Daddy will be grumpy Josh, just like I’m grumpy sometimes. It doesn’t mean that we’re aliens, and it will never, ever mean that we don’t love you.”

“All right.”

He doesn’t understand, she can tell. What she’s trying to explain – that adults will upset you even when they love you - makes far less sense to him than the black and white world of goodies and baddies. Is it really such a bad thing to let him believe for now? Knowing the truth about James certainly hasn’t made her any happier. Or Katie and Ella, it seems.

“I love you lots,” she tells him, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

“Can you play Superman with me?”

“Not now, it’s time to go to sleep.”

“Tomorrow?”

“After school, but be quiet now - Tilly’s tired. Read your comic if you can’t fall asleep.” She reaches to the bookcase and places a couple of comics on his bedside table. In the dim glow of the night-light, he’ll be able to distract himself with the illustrations until he drops off.

“Did you and Mr Tucker intelligate pretend Daddy when you went away, Mummy? Did you go to UNIT?”

“Settle down now love. Sweet dreams.” She kisses his forehead as she stands, and he gives her a happy grin that tells her he’ll be awake for a while yet.

“Goo’night Mummy.”

\---

It’s only nine o’clock, but she’s so tired that she can’t even be bothered to go downstairs to collect her overnight bag from the hall. She just kicks the day’s clothes into a heap in the corner of her bedroom, changes into a fresh pair of pyjamas and crawls under the covers. She’s asleep by the time James gets into bed. She jerks awake as the mattress dips under his bulk. They really need to get one of those memory foam mattresses.

“What time is it?” she asks groggily.

“A bit after eleven,” he tells her, spooning in behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist. It brings back a vivid memory of clutching her abdomen the previous evening, trying to relieve the pain of the contractions as she miscarried their child. A child that, because of her, will never even have a name.

She shudders and James mistakes it for chill. He draws her closer. “It was cold without you. And lonely.”

“You can't have been lonely – you had four children here.”

“Not that kind of lonely,” he tells her, pressing a kiss against the sensitive skin just below her ear. His hand works its way underneath her pyjama top.

“James, I’m really tired.”

“It might help you relax,” he tells her, kissing her neck again. “You’re very tense.”

“Please. I’m tired and I have my period and I’ve had a shitty couple of days. I just want to go to sleep.”

He sighs. “All right.” They lie in silence for a moment. “Why was it so shitty?”

“What?”

“Your trip - what was so shitty about it? Was it Malcolm?”

She thinks back to the horrible awkwardness between them all day. “Partly.”

"He fancies you, you know."

"Malcolm?"

"Yeah. Every time I look at him he’s checking out your arse."

Christ, is it so obvious to everyone except her? For months she has been trying to figure Malcolm out. Ninety percent of the time he's tearing her to shreds in the most humiliating way possible, and then he does inexplicably thoughtful things - like the way he’d treated her when the whole Albany expenses story had blown up.  It was only this morning, when she’d woken up to find him asleep in her bedroom, that the penny had finally dropped.

"I know."

" _You've_ noticed?” There’s incredulity in James’ voice. “Christ, he must have been obvious – you _never_ notice stuff like that. Did you catch him drooling?"

"No."

She must sound perturbed because James' tone shifts from amused to concerned. "He hasn't done something has he?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tried it on with you?"

"No, nothing like that."

"But something's happened, hasn't it?"

She stays silent for too long. James stiffens behind her, his arm tightening around her waist. "Nic, what's wrong? What’s happened?"

She shakes her head. "It's nothing."

“It’s not nothing or you wouldn’t be so shifty about it.”

"He said it was him who broke your nose at Christmas."

James shifts. "Ah, yes. Well, he took me by surprise."

"You never said."

"You didn't ask."

"Because I thought _I_ did it."

"You?!" James doesn't even try to hold back his laughter. "What on earth made you think that?"

"I was drunk the night before and we had been arguing."

"And so you thought you broke my nose?"

She cringes. She can see now that it was ridiculous, but she had panicked when she’d followed a trail of blood from the front door and found him passed out in the living room. "I couldn't remember you coming home."

"Nicky, you couldn't have broken my nose if you tried. you can't even _reach_ my nose."

"That's what Malcolm said."

He stops laughing at this. "And that's what made you think he fancies you?"

Nicola nods in the dark. "Yes. I couldn’t think of why else he would do it.” She hesitates for a moment before asking: “Is that why you hate him so much?" James might be self-absorbed, but he doesn’t usually hold grudges. She’s never seen the level of hostility on his face that she had seen when he was talking to Malcolm outside earlier. And Malcolm’s expression had been just as antagonistic.

“He’s a prick. He’s going to lose it one day and end up in jail.”

“I don’t think he’s very well.”

“He’s unhinged.”

“He’s on the way to a nervous breakdown.”

James sighs. “I don’t want to think about Malcolm Tucker right now. I’m in bed with my wife.”

She doesn’t want to think about Malcolm Tucker now either. She wants to forget everything that’s happened in the last 48 hours. “How have the kids been?”

“I hardly saw Katie and Ella. Josh, Tilly and I had fun though. They’re good kids.”

“We’re going to have to talk to Katie and Ella. They can’t carry on treating you like this – it’s upsetting Tilly.”

“Is that what she was telling you earlier?”

She nods, their heads still close enough on the pillow that he will feel the motion.

“They’re teenagers Nic – it’s what they do. They’ll get over it.”

“Ella’s twelve.”

“Kids grow up quickly these days – they’re much more mature than we were at that age. It’ll be fine.”

It won’t be fine. The older girls take after James – strong emotions that blow over quickly. But neither of them has been speaking to him for months – ever since that bloody article was published. What if they never forgive him? What if something has broken that can’t be fixed?

He rubs her arm. “I can hear your brain ticking. Stop worrying and go to sleep.”

She places her hand over his, holding his arm securely around her waist. “I want everything to be all right.”

“I know. It will be. Go back to sleep.”


	2. Keep your head together

“Terri, what part of bacon sandwiches and croissants would you describe as a healthy choice?”

Terri looks up from the buffet she’s arranging. She’s wearing her ridiculous turquoise and magenta trainers and, as far as Nicola can tell, doing nothing more useful than fingering the sandwiches.

“Perhaps the healthy choice is saying _no_ to the bacon sandwiches and croissants,” observes Glenn.

“Or adding ketchup,” adds Ollie with a smirk. “If you eat enough that’s got to be one of your five a day,”

“The caterers didn’t offer anything else in our price range,” says Terri defensively. “I got orange juice.”

“We’re _not_ serving processed meat and white bread at the Healthy Choices launch!” Nicola says, gesturing to the buffet. She’s nervous enough about the hard launch as it is, without the DoSAC director of communications trying to sabotage her before she’s even started talking. “Get this lot out of here and find something more appropriate!”

“Minister, we’ve already paid for the bacon rolls,” says Terri in a manner that implies Nicola is somewhat dim-witted and entirely unreasonable.

“I don’t care about the budget – I’ll pay for it myself if I have to! Just go and find something that won’t give them bloody diabetes!”

“They’re due in thirty minutes.”

“Then you’d better hurry up!”

“What else should I get?” Terri asks, and Nicola has to clench her fists by her side to stop herself resorting to physical violence.

“I don’t know Terri, what do normal people eat for breakfast? Fruit, yoghurt, cereal bars - anything but sodding saturated fats held together with white pap! You’re the PR officer, I really shouldn’t have to be explaining this to you.”

Terri stares at Nicola. She has the audacity to look resentful.

“I’ll get rid of these,” Ollie says, scooping up a platter of bacon rolls and carrying it towards the staff room.

Nicola sighs, running her hands though her hair - which already looks as though she’s had a session with a van der Graaf generator. “Glenn, would you go with Terri please? Make sure she doesn’t come back with pizza and bloody chocolate bars.”

Glenn nods, his expression somewhere between pained and sympathetic, and ushers Terri out of the room.

“Do I smell blood in the water already? And I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.”

Nicola stifles a groan as Malcolm saunters into the room.

“Speaking of which - fucking bacon sandwiches!? Is this a coded message to the Fourth Estate? Why not just write ‘ _Die pigs die’_ on a cake of rat poison?”

“This is an example of what happens when you put Terri in charge of anything more important than paper clips,” she says, watching in disgust as he drowns a bacon sandwich in brown sauce. “Are you actually going to eat that?”

“I’m fuckin’ starvin’,” he tells her around a mouthful of bacon sandwich.

He looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot and he smells faintly of alcohol and stale sweat. Perhaps last night had been one of those nights when he bunked down on his sofa and drunk his way through a bottle of Scotch. She wonders how much of that is due to her, and how much to what she is convinced is an impending nervous breakdown. “Have you come to help or heckle?”

“Can I no’ do both?” he asks as Ollie returns for the second tray of bacon sandwiches. The traitorous little shit has grease stains on his shirt and a smudge of ketchup at the corner of his mouth. How typical that he would put his own greed above saving her from another political car crash.

“Unless you’re here to hand out hummus and carrot sticks you can just piss off.”

“I’m here to save your bacon. Although not this bacon,” he adds, swallowing the last mouthful of his sandwich. She’s never seen anyone inhale food so fast. Even Josh has to stop for breath occasionally.

“Enlighten me, please. It’s not like I have anything important to do – such as going over the speech I’m due to be giving in twenty minutes.”

He’s unmoved by the dig. “I’ve got some ideas about Healthy Choices.”

“Well it’s a bit bloody late, Malcolm! I signed off on _my_ policy months ago.”

“All right, keep yer hair on. Actually, have yeh got a brush because it’s lookin’ a bit—”

The anxiety that has been creeping over her starts clawing at her chest. “Malcolm! You’re not fucking helping!”

“Shall…shall I come back?” asks a small voice. She turns to see Terri and Glenn in the doorway, each clutching handfuls of Pret bags.

“No,” says Malcolm. “You two sort out the fuckin’ breakfast club. Glummy Mummy and I are goin’ to do some downers.”

She glares at him as he takes her by the elbow and guides her to her office, but it’s a half-hearted glare, undermined by the trembling in her hands and legs.

“Sit down before yeh fall down,” he tells her as he shuts the door.

She leans on the edge of her desk, because falling down is a genuine possibility at the moment. “What do you want Malcolm?”

“I came to make sure everythin’s on track. Which it doesn’t seem to be.”

“I was dealing with it.”

“Aye, by givin’ yerself a fuckin’ aneurism.”

“Please, I have to give a speech in quarter of an hour. I don’t need this.”

“Yeh speech’ll be fine. For once yeh actually know what yer talkin’ about.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. Yeh did fine at the soft launch, yeh talked about it at the Party conference, this is just the greatest hits tour.”

“Is this you doing pep talk?” she asks, rubbing her hairline with shaking fingers, worrying the healing scar on her temple.

“I came to check if yer all right.” His voice is soft and she looks up to see genuine concern in his eyes.

She glances away, fixing her gaze on her horribly uncomfortable black court shoes. “I’m fine. I just want this stupid press conference to be over with.”

“What’s worryin’ you about it? Yer no’ sayin’ anythin’ you haven’t said before. Like you said, you signed off on the policy months ago.”

“There’s a Q&A,” she says. Her voice is traitorously small.

“Ah.”

 _Ah_ indeed. Aside from all the usual opportunities to stick her foot in her mouth that inviting questions affords, it’s the first time the hacks have had unscripted access to her since the whole James thing.

“Well don’ worry about that. They’ve all had the ‘I’ll chop yer nuts off’ speech from Angus. If any of them try to ask personal questions I’ll make good on the promise.”

It’s easy for him to tell her not to worry. He’s not the one about to be asked about his spouse’s drug binges and sex romps by half the nation’s media.

“Everythin’ all right with Conan the Barbarian?” asks Malcolm when she doesn’t respond.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Yeh were practically hyperventilating at the thought of bein’ in the same house as him last night.”

“That wasn’t about him. It was-” She cuts herself short. Does she really need Malcolm to become any more entangled in her personal life than he already is? “You know what, it’s none of your business. Can we just focus on Healthy Choices please?”

He huffs. She assumes he is also pulling some kind of face, but it turns out it’s much easier to ignore Malcolm when you’re not looking at him. “All right. Do yeh want to hear my idea?”

“If it means you’ll leave me alone.”

“Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship leads by example and organises cross-Party lunchtime yoga class.”

She glances up at him. He’s looking genuinely pleased with himself. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s another thing that yer actually fuckin’ good at. And it gives people something to say about yeh other than what a prick yer husband is and how grumpy you look. Who knows, it might even calm you down a bit.”

“Lunchtime yoga classes? That’s your great policy idea?”

“That’s my great strategy for how we’re goin’ to shut down the press conference when the fuckers start getting restless.”

“No.” _Nonononono_. There is no way she is turning herself into the laughing stock of Westminster. She’s managed to get away with doing yoga in public once, but any more would be tempting fate. There will be unflattering photos of her wearing leggings with her arse in the air floating around within thirty minutes, and with her luck she’ll be forced to look at Peter Manion’s scrotum while he attempts a half lotus in 1980s budgie smugglers. “That’s a terrible idea Malcolm.”

“It’s fuckin’ genius.”

“It’s fucking demented!” She’s prevented from making her point more forcefully by a knock on the door.

“Secretary of State, they’re starting to arrive,” says Terri, her left eye and half a mouth visible through the crack in the door.

“Right, I’ll be out in a moment,” she says. “And please put some proper shoes on, Terri. You look like you’re going bowling.”

“Maybe we can get Terri to head up inter-departmental bowling for incompetent civil servants,” says Malcolm as he propels her towards the door with a hand in the small of her back. She catches a whiff of stale whisky as he moves.

“I’m not doing lunchtime yoga,” she tells him, brushing his hand away. “For once, I’m going to get through a day in this place with some fucking dignity intact.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you agreed to lead cross party yoga classes,” laughs James.

“I didn’t agree! I was ambushed. I was trying to wrap the bloody press conference up and he just announced it.”

“Poor Nicky,” he says, kissing her neck. He always manages to find that spot that makes her suck in her breath and shiver.

“I’m not sure I can manage another round,” she warns. They’re lying in bed and although it’s only nine thirty she feels boneless and drowsy. Somehow sharing a Friday night bottle of wine had ended in them fucking against the bedroom wall. And then again, at a more leisurely pace, on the bed.  

James chuckles. “Have I tired you out?”

She nods against his chest. “You and the week from hell.”

They lie in silence for a while, James stroking her arm. “Christ, imagine what that Terri woman must look like in lycra,” he says suddenly.

“I’d really rather not, thank you,” although her mind is already supplying her with horrifying images.

“For the record, I think you look very sexy in lycra. Especially when you’re all warm and sweaty, and your arse is nice and pert from all that wanking bull, or whatever it is you do in those classes.”

“Wanking bull is not a yoga pose,” she tells him, but the way his hand is ghosting over her stomach is very distracting.

“We could invent it,” he tells her suggestively.

“I can’t think of a less erotic name than wanking bull.”

“Putrid corpse?”

“James! That’s disgusting!” But she's laughing as she pushes herself upright. “I’m going to have a shower before I fall asleep. Alone!” she clarifies when he moves to get up.

“Fine, I’ll lie here and think about wanking bulls.”

"Have fun with that."

* * *

The shower helps her shake off some of her drowsiness. While James gets ready for bed she pulls out a draft policy on multilingualism in schools that Education have sent over. It was at the bottom of her despatch box, which means some two-faced civil servant has almost certainly put it last on her to do list in the hope that she would just skim it and sign it off. She knows just enough about the implications of language policy on social integration to know that it’s political dynamite though, and she refuses to be the fall guy for when it inevitably goes wrong. 

“We’re out of toothpaste,” James shouts from the en suite.

“There’s a new tube in the pantry.”

“I can’t be bothered to go all the way down there. I’ll use the travel one.”

“Lazy bastard. Make sure you put it back afterwards. I don’t want to end up trying to brush my teeth with mouthwash like I did in Eastbourne.” She returns her attention to the papers on her lap.

“What’s this?” says James from the doorway of the bathroom.

She looks up, peering in the low light. “I can’t see.”

He takes a couple of steps into the bedroom, holding up a white cardboard box of the type that prescription medicine is dispensed in. “This.”

“Is it the leftover antibiotics from when Josh had that chest infection?”

“It’s from your wash bag. Made out to Nicola Hillman.”

The papers slide to the floor. _Shit_.

“Why are you getting medication prescribed under your maiden name? Are you ill?”

She shakes her head, forcing words through a dry mouth. “No, I’m fine. I just – I had to see a doctor when I was in Leeds and it seemed like a good idea to keep it low profile.”

“This isn’t just paracetamol, Nicky – this stuff’s got street value. What do you need it for?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. I only had a few tablets - I haven’t even taken them all.”

“It’s not nothing,” insists out James, approaching the bed. “Because you used a different name and you're trying to avoid telling me about it.”

She sits up straighter. She has to crane neck to look up at him when he is standing so close, especially when she’s sitting down. “It’s women’s things – I thought you’d probably rather not know the gruesome details.”

“Why don’t you want me to know?”

She reaches down to retrieve the fallen papers, tucking them back in their manila folder. Her hands are shaking. “Do we have to talk about it now?”

James grabs the folder from her hands and dumps it on the bedside table. His tone has changed from concern to irritation. “Don’t try and put me off. What’s going on?”

She’s going to have to tell him. He won’t let it go until she says something and she’s too bad a liar to spin him a line. She takes an unsteady breath. “I had an abortion.”

He just stares at her, his mouth slightly agape. Silence stretches out between them and she speaks because she can’t stand it. “When I was in Leeds I had an abortion. I used my maiden name because I didn’t want anyone to find out because the press would crucify me if they knew and I didn’t want it to be on my medical records. I didn’t even think it was possible any more – I thought I was too old and after Josh the consultant said I probably wouldn’t be able to con—”

“ _Shut up_!” His voice is so cold and firm that her mouth snaps closed. She doesn't recognise the expression on his face. She just waits, her hand pressed to her sternum to try to ground herself against the anxiety starting to crawl over her skin and cloud her vision.

"Whose was it?" he asks, finally.

"Yours!" She'd be angry if she wasn't so unsettled. "Of course it was yours."

“Don’t say it like it’s so fucking obvious!”

“Well whose else’s would it be? Men aren’t exactly queueing up to sleep with me.”

“I can’t believe this.” He runs his hand through his hair and she still can’t tell how he’s feeling. Angry James is normally explosive, shouty James. This is something different and altogether more alarming. “I don’t even—how long? How old was it when you—” he gestures at her abdomen.

“About ten weeks,” she says, folding her arms over her stomach.

“And when did you find out?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” She'd suspected far sooner - had been pregnant enough times by now to know the signs. But it was a couple of weeks ago that she had forced herself to acknowledge what was happening and take a test.

“And when did you plan it?”

“Plan what? To get pregnant?”

“No! You clearly didn’t want to be fucking pregnant! When did you plan to terminate my child?”

“Oh. It erm, last week.”

James paces, rubbing the back of his neck. She clutches her knees to her chest. Her heart is hammering so loudly she can hear it. “Who helped you?”

“What?”

He spins to face her. “Who helped you? You can’t organise your way out of a paper bag – who helped you book a bloody abortion in another city under a fake name?”

 _Oh no_. “James, I…”

“It was him wasn’t it? Malcolm.”

She hesitates and then nods, because there's never any point trying to lie to him.

He takes a step towards the bed. “Did he talk you into it? Did he tell you what a terrible idea it would be for you to have another one of big bad James’ children and then hurry to get it flushed out before you could change your mind?”

“No, it wasn’t like that at all!”

“So what happened then? I’d really like to know what went on behind my fucking back!”

She rubs her face with her hands. “ _I_ went to see _him_. I was scared – I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t keep it and I didn’t know how to…”

“How to kill it?”

She nods miserably.

“At any point did it occur to you to talk to _me_ about it?!”

She meets his eye, willing him to understand. “I didn’t know how you would react. I didn’t even know what I wanted, I just – there were so many reasons why it seemed like a bad idea to have another baby.”

“So you went to him instead?”

“I’m sorry.”

He lowers his voice. “Did you really think I’d force you to have a baby that you didn’t want?”

“No! Maybe...I don’t know. You were really determined to have Tilly and Josh."

"We wanted a boy. Not just me - you did too. It's not like I held a gun to your head. When have you _ever_ done something you didn't want to?"

"I don’t know what I was thinking. I was _scared._ ”

“You could have talked to me – I’m not a fucking monster.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He pulls open the dressing table, taking off his pyjama bottoms and pulling on a pair of jeans. Nicola scrambles out of bed. “James, what are you doing?”

“I’m going out.” He tugs on a jumper and takes a pair of socks from the drawer.

“Where are you going?”

He brushes past her, heading for the landing. “Get out of my way. I can’t talk to you at the moment.”

“James!” she runs after him, following him down the stairs. “We need to talk about this.”

He steps into his shoes and reaches for his coat, tucking his wallet into the pocket. “We needed to talk about this weeks ago! And instead you talked to that Scottish twat.”

“So you’re going to storm out like a fucking teenager!? And you wonder why I was worried about telling you!”

“Leave me alone Nicky.”

“No.” She positions herself between James and the front door. “You’re going to stay here and we’re going to talk like fucking grown-ups for once!”

James turns to face her and his expression is not what she expects. She had expected anger but there are tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t talk to you right now - I can hardly even bear to look at you.”

“James, please.”

He shoves her aside so that he can get at the door. Her shoulder connects painfully with the wall. “I need to get out of here or I’m going to do something I regret.”

“James!” Her voice cracks.                          

The door slams behind him and she stands watching through the glass as he walks down the garden path. When he reaches the gate he pauses for a moment, running his hands through his hair as he looks up and down the street. Then he turns right and sets off.

She leans against the door, pressing her forehead against the cool surface. It had gone even worse than she had expected. She should have told him weeks ago - she should have told him as soon as she found out she was pregnant. How can they ever sort their relationship out if she always assumes the worst of him? He’d apologised for his behaviour. He had seemed genuinely contrite. He’s been trying so hard to be at home more and pay more attention to the family. Things were finally starting to get better and she’s ruined everything with her stupid insecurity.

She’s shaking. She presses her body harder against the door, allowing the cold wood and glass to cool down her burning skin as she concentrates on her breathing. Breathe out slowly. Imagine the tension in her shoulders and chest ebbing out of her on the out breath. Don’t draw too deeply on the in breath. Gently in for four, gently out for eight. The techniques are so familiar by now that they’re almost automatic.

A pair of arms wraps itself around her midsection. “Mummy.”

She turns, the embrace loosening but not releasing. “Tilly, what are you doing up?”

Tilly tightens her hug again, pressing her face into Nicola’s chest. “I’m scared.”

She returns Tilly’s embrace. “It’s all right sweetheart, don’t be scared.”

“I don’t like it when you and Daddy fight.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you weren’t going to fight any more.”

“Shhh.” She strokes Tilly’s hair. “It’s all right, try not to think about it.” She knows she will though. Of all her children Tilly is the most like her - she worries about everything. “Shall I come and lie down with you?”

Tilly nods. “Yes please.”

Mercifully Josh doesn’t wake up as they climb into Tilly’s bed. They lie cuddled together in the dim glow of the night light, clinging to each other. “Would you like a story?” she asks and Tilly nods against her neck.

Nicola’s never been good at telling stories off the top of her head, but she manages a passable retelling of Cinderella. By the time midnight strikes and the magic unravels Tilly has fallen asleep, her head drooping on Nicola’s shoulder. She concentrates all her attention on the sensation of the warm weight pressed against her side and the clean smell of soap and fabric conditioner – the inimitable, innocent smell of childhood. If she focuses on these things, she can push out thoughts about her argument with James and the fifth child that never got to be.


	3. Saturday night and Sunday morning

_Friday, 23.14: I’m so sorry. I should have told you as soon as I found out. Please come back so we can talk_

_Saturday, 05.23: Are you all right? Where are you?_

_Saturday, 09.48: I’m taking the kids to the supermarket. We should only be an hour_

_Saturday: 12.27: Are you still taking Josh to the rugby this afternoon?_

_Saturday 19.03: Please just let me know that you’re safe_

* * *

Unease hangs over the whole household. Tilly is unsettled and clingy, following her wherever she goes. Josh is confused, haunting the Batcave in the study as though he can will James back to play with him. Ella is even more withdrawn and uncommunicative than usual. The only small mercy is that Katie is spending the weekend with a friend and can’t ask inconvenient questions about where James has gone. And why.

By Saturday evening she has abandoned all the usual house rules about screen time and junk food. Josh and Tilly are slumped on the sofa, watching their third Disney film of the day with a bowl of popcorn. Nicola has retreated to the kitchen, where she is working her way through the seemingly bottomless ironing hamper while listening to Radio 3. She passionately loathes ironing, but at least it provides an outlet for some of her nervous energy.

She finishes the last shirt on the pile and realises that she’s two short – she only has three of Ella’s school shirts. Ella isn’t much of one for putting her laundry in the hamper, but Nicola thought she had done a pretty thorough sweep of her bedroom floor when she’d rounded up laundry the previous evening.

She goes up to the top floor, which houses Ella and Katie’s bedrooms and a shared bathroom that is perpetually coated in a film of fixing powder and hairspray. Ella doesn’t answer when she knocks, so Nicola pokes her head around the door to see her sitting on the bed, staring at her laptop with her headphones on.

“Ella?”

She doesn’t look up. Nicola walks over to her and taps her on the shoulder. Ella jumps and pushes her headphones down. “What?”

“There are only three of your school shirts in the ironing pile, where are the rest?”

Ella gives her a studiedly blank look. “Don’t know.”

“How can you not know? You were the last person to see them. Where did you put them when you took them off?”

“I don’t know! It doesn’t matter, I can manage with three.”

“It does matter! You can’t walk around with grubby shirts.” The school think she’s a bad enough parent already, without her sending her daughter to classes in dirty clothes.

“Mum!” Ella’s tone is aggressive. “Leave it alone!”

“You won’t be saying that on Thursday morning when you don’t have any clean shirts.”

Ella pushes her laptop and headphones aside, fixing Nicola with her most sullen glare – the one she knows is the spitting image of her own. “It doesn’t matter! I’ll wear one of Katie’s old ones.”

“Katie’s old ones won’t fit you properly,” she tells her, forcing herself to remain calm. “Where are yours?”

When Ella makes no response Nicola kneels down and peers under the bed. “Christ Ella, it’s a mess under here. Look at all this rubbish!”

“Mum, don’t!”

She had thought the litter under the bed was empty food wrappers, but when she pulls them out she realises that the crisp packets and the carton of bread sticks are unopened. “What are you doing with all this food under your bed? Did you get these from the kitchen?”

Ella jumps off the bed and tries to pull her away. “Stop it, Mum! Don’t look under there.”

If Ella doesn’t want her to look under the bed then Nicola definitely wants to see what’s there. “Let go,” she says, prying her fingers off her arm.

“Please Mum!” Ella's voice is panicked.

Nicola reaches further under the bed and pulls out a crumpled shirt. “This is one of yours isn—“ The words die in her mouth as she unfolds the shirt. It is torn and the back is soaked in what looks like mud. “Skank” is written across the front in permanent marker and – “Is this blood!?” she asks, pointing to the splatter of red on the collar. “Is this _your_ blood? What on earth’s happened?”

Ella’s expression is wide eyed and guilty. “It’s nothing.”

A note of hysteria creeps into her voice that she can’t control. “This is not nothing! This is very serious! Did this happen at school? Who did this?”

Ella backs away, looking anywhere but at Nicola and the soiled shirt. “Mum, it doesn't matter. Just leave it.”

As though she could do anything of the sort. Nicola takes Ella’s face in her hands, turning it gently from side to side to look for signs of cuts and bruises. “What happened, love?”

Ella pushes her hands away and grabs the shirt, hiding it behind her back. “Nothing!”

“Did this happen at school?” she persists.

“Please don’t go to school Mum! You’ll just make it even worse.”

Nicola holds her hands up. “I won’t go to the school. But you have to tell me what’s going on. Please darling, I’m worried now.”

Ella clamps her mouth shut, shaking her head.

Nicola stares at the mess on the floor in front of her and tries to piece it all together. “All those times you lost your Oyster card money – someone’s been taking it, haven’t they?”

Ella hesitates and then nods, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“Have they been taking your lunch too? Is that why you’re hiding all this food up here – because you’re hungry when you get home?”

Ella nods again.

The bottom drops out of her stomach. “Oh Ella, why didn’t you tell me? I could have talked to the school – it didn’t need to get this bad.”

“What is it?” She prompts when Ella still says nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me – or Dad? We could have helped.”

“I didn’t want you to go to school,” Ella mutters, not meeting her eye. “Because that’s why it started in the first place.”

Nicola stares at her in surprise. “Because of me?”

She nods. “They said Mr Stone got sacked because of you. They said it should have been me that left, not him.”

“Who’s they? The other kids in your class?”

“And the teachers…And then Dad was in the papers and…” Ella looks up, finally making eye contact. Her expression is desperate. “Everyone’s seen it Mum! They put pictures of Dad taking drugs on the noticeboards, and they keep playing that video of him licking that woman’s boobs.” And suddenly Ella is not the angry, secretive girl she has been for the last few months, she's the child that left primary school less than a year ago. She looks so young and so heartbreakingly vulnerable. Nicola gathers her in her arms, holding her tightly.

“Oh Ella…”

“It’s horrible,” she sobs, clutching at Nicola. “I hate it!”

“I’m sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry. I should have realised.” She bites back her own tears as Ella cries. She should have recognised far sooner how strangely she's been behaving – this bullying must have been going on for months. Instead she’s been too absorbed in her own selfish problems to notice what’s been happening to one of her children. What else has she missed?

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” cries Ella. “Sometimes I wish I could have an accident and be in hospital so I don’t have to go to school.”

Nicola cradles the back of Ella’s head as she holds her. “You’re not going back.” The plan forms as the words leave her mouth, and it’s as though a weight has been lifted. “I should never have made you go there in the first place. You're not even going to set foot in that school again.”

“It’s the middle of term.”

“I don’t care! We’ll figure something out until you can start another school next term, but you are _never_ going back there.”

Ella pushes back slightly so she can look at Nicola’s face. Her expression is doubt mixed with hope. “Really?”

“Yes. Yes! I should never have made you go there in the first place. This is all my fault. It was stupid and cowardly and I should never have agreed to it.”

“It’s not your fault Mum,” says Ella, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s because of your stupid job.”

The truth of it hits her like a punch to the stomach. Their family life hadn’t been perfect before she was appointed to Cabinet – far from it – but she could have avoided this mess. She can’t even say she’s drawing any satisfaction from the job because 90% of the time it’s hell. The only bit she enjoys are her constituency surgeries, and she’d be doing those as a backbencher anyway.

“No job is more important than you, sweetheart,” Nicola tells her, cupping her face in her hands. “You and your sisters and brother are the most precious things in the world to me.”

“It’s been so horrible, Mummy.”

It’s the first time in a year that Ella has called her Mummy. She’d switched to Mum when she’d started her new school. “I know,” she says, stroking her face. “My poor little girl. I tell you what, why don’t we put Josh and Tilly to bed, and we can have a girls' night? We can order takeaway if you like.”

Ella shakes her head. “I don’t want takeaway. Can we make a cake together, like we used to? I miss talking to you.”

She’s touched that Ella’s more interested in spending time with her than staying up late for a film and junk food. She smiles at her. “That sounds nice. I’d like that.”

* * *

_20.18: Please come home. Something’s happened with Ella and I need to tell you about it._

* * *

Her mobile phone wakes her just after 6. She thinks for a moment that it might be James, but it’s only a message from Malcolm telling her which of the Sunday papers are covering Healthy Choices. She rolls over and sends James another message before closing her eyes again.

_I know you’re angry with me, but we really need to talk about Ella._

She’s starting to be seriously worried about him. He’s never stayed away for this long without getting in touch before. She wonders whether she should start ringing round the hospitals. What if he has been hit by a car, or been mugged? She sits up in bed, her chest tightening. He could have been lying in intensive care, unidentified, for twenty-four hours, fighting for his life while she’s been thinking the worst of him.

Her phone beeps and she grabs it. It’s another message from Malcolm. _What’s wrong with Ella?_

She checks the thread and realises that in her half-awake state she’d replied to his message about the papers instead of messaging James. _Shit. Shit shit shit_.

She stares in horror as the phone begins to ring. The caller display reads _Malcolm Tucker_. She rejects the call and it’s immediately followed by another. She lets it go to voicemail. Her phone beeps with another text message. _If you don’t pick up I’m coming to your fucking house_.

He would. He'd come wading in and this whole thing would get a hundred times more complicated. The phone rings again. She takes a breath and picks up.

“What the fuck’s going on?”

“Good morning to you too, Malcolm.”

“Not any more it’s not. What’s that message all about?”

“It wasn’t meant for you.”

“I guessed that! Who was it for? Fucking He-Man? What’s happening?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Too late for that.”

She hears footsteps on the stairs – James’ distinctive heavy tread. “I can’t talk now,” she hisses. “Everything’s fine. Please don’t come round.”

“Nic'la—”

She hangs up the phone as the bedroom door swings open. Her first reaction at seeing James is relief that he isn’t lying in a hospital bed. It’s immediately followed by dismay. He is still in the clothes he was wearing when he left the house on Friday evening and his hair is lank. As he steps closer she can see that his pupils are blown wide.

“Who was that?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, as though he’s been shouting.

“No one,” she tells him, doing her best to sound nonchalant.

“For fuck’s sake Nicky, when are you going to stop keeping things from me?”

“Where have you been?” she asks. “I’ve been worried sick.”

James continues as though she hasn’t spoken. “Was it Malcolm? Have you been telling him what a bastard I’ve been? How unreasonable I am?”

“I haven’t told him anything,” she says, edging away as he approaches her side of the bed. “He was telling me what coverage Healthy Choices got in the Sunday papers.”

“At six thirty on a weekend?”

“He does it for all the Cabinet ministers. When did you get home?”

Her phone buzzes again. Another message form Malcolm, she sees out of the corner of her eye. James reaches across and grabs her wrist, wrestling her phone out of her hand.

She yelps in surprise and discomfort. “What are you doing!?”

He leans in and she smells spirits on his breath. “You said we needed to talk. Let’s talk.”

“James, you’re hurting me,” she says, trying to pull her wrist away from him.

He responds by grabbing her free arm, shoving her backwards so that she's pinned against the headboard. “ _You’ve_ hurt _me_ , Nicky. Do you have any idea how much you’ve fucking hurt me?”

She doesn’t know this side to James. It's unpredictable and a little frightening. She struggles harder. “Let go of me, please.”

He sits on the bed and grips her even more firmly, leaning in so that his face is almost touching hers. The smell of sweat and spirits makes her want to gag. "I can't believe you've betrayed me like this. It's down to him, isn't it? He's been poisoning you against me for months."

A wave of panic washes over her, making her voice shrill. "James, calm down!"

His face twists into a sneer. “Shhh. You don’t want to wake the kids do you?”


	4. The morning after the night before

She’s late to work on Monday morning. So late that she has to phone the office and ask them to reschedule all of her appointments until lunch time. Tilly refuses to go to school unless Nicola drops her off, so she takes her and Josh in the car. On the way back she stops off at Ella’s now former school and demands a meeting with the head, in which she outlines the dismal failures in pastoral care that have led her to withdraw her daughter. She’s so angry that she almost forgets that the interim head knows that it was her fault that his predecessor was forced to resign, and that everyone in the building has seen videos of James licking champagne off an escort’s chest. Almost.

Once that’s done she has to beg the nanny to work extra hours looking after Ella during the day until she can sort out a tutor for the rest of the school year. Marta only relents once Ella has promised to be on her absolute best behaviour and Nicola has agreed to pay double rates for the extra hours.

All of these arrangements she makes without consultation with James because they’ve been avoiding each other since Sunday morning. She’d taken the children to her parents’ for the day to keep out of his way while he slept off his 36 hour binge. When they arrived back in the evening James was skulking in his study. In Katie’s absence Nicola had slept in her room – although sleep is a generous description. She’d spent most of the night lying awake in the dark, jumping whenever she heard a sound somewhere in the house.

All in all, she feels even more exhausted than she had before the weekend. Which is one of several reasons why her heart sinks to find Malcolm looming in front of her as she tries to make a discrete exit from Number 10 after the Monday Cabinet meeting.

“Hello Malcolm,” she says, moving to step around him. He steps sideways, blocking her route. His arms are folded and he looks like he wants to bite the head off a small animal.

“You were late today,” he says in an ominously quiet tone.

“I’m sorry, I had to sort out some childcare issues before I came in.”

“Oh aye, something to do with Ella?”

“What makes you thinks that?”

“Do you no’ remember sending me a text message yesterday mornin’? Shortly before you tried to avoid answerin’ my calls and then fuckin’ _hung up_ on me?”

“Oh.” _Oh fuck_. Among everything that had followed, she had forgotten how her Sunday had started.

“Yeah, ‘ _oh_ ’!” He gestures to his office. “Get in there, we need to talk.”

“I’m quite busy Malcolm, I’ve got a call with Public Health England in ten-“

“Now! Or would you rather we discuss the phone call I got from your husband yesterday out here?”

“What? James rang you?” This is news. News that she _definitely_ doesn’t want to discuss in the corridor. She steps into Malcolm’s office and he follows, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Why did James ring you?” she asks. “How did he even get your number?”

“Sit down,” Malcolm tells her, taking his own seat and gesturing to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

“I can’t stay long-” she tells him, shifting her handbag from her hand to her shoulder.

“Fuckin’ sit down! This is goin’ to take a while.”

She jumps at the harshness of his tone. The vein on his forehead is throbbing and his eyebrows have arched into vicious peaks. She lowers herself gingerly into the chair. “All right, I’m listening.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ speakin’! Yeh can start by tellin’ me why that cunt rang me from your Government issue phone yesterday – the encrypted one that only _you_ are supposed to know the passcode for.”

Oh Christ alive, it just keeps getting worse. “I took the kids out for the day and left my phone at home. He must have managed to unlock it.”

“What’s your fuckin' passcode – 1234? It’s good thing we don’t trust you with the nuclear codes. Rugger Bugger would have auctioned them off to fund his crack habit months ago.”

“I’m not a complete idiot Malcolm! It’s Katie’s birthday. No one but James is going to guess that.”

“Aye, because _no one_ would think to use their kids’ birthdays as passcodes. The fuckin’ Enigma machine couldn’t crack that one.”

She holds up her hands. “Okay, you’re right, it’s not very secure. I’m sorry - I’ll change it.”

He narrows his eyes. “You only give up that easily when you’re tryin’ to get on my good side. Well I _don’t have_ a fuckin’ good side today darlin’. Why did I get a phone call from fuckin’ William Wallace telling me that if I ever step within a hundred feet of yeh again he’ll beat me until I’m – and I quote – _nothing but_ _gristle on the pavement_.”

She cringes. Just when she thinks that she’s reached the lowest ebb, a trap door opens and she plummets to new depths. “I’m sorry, he shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, he fuckin’ shouldn’t. Why did he?”

“He found out about the abortion.” 

He stares at her incredulously. “Oh, well that’s just great! I go to all that trouble to make sure it’s fuckin’ secret and within forty-eight hours he knows because you can’t keep your fuckin’ _mouth_ shut!”

More like twenty-four, but she’s definitely not going to admit that to Malcolm. “He found the painkillers in my wash bag and he wanted to know what they were for. He wouldn’t let it go – I _had_ to tell him.”

“You could have fuckin’ _lied_!”

“You know I'm a useless liar!”

He throws his hands up. “You’re a politician, lyin’s part of the job! Which is just another in the catalogue of reasons why you’re the most incompetent minister I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. And we’re not talking the skinny little Lakeland catalogue here, you’re the fucking _Argos_ catalogue of incompetence!”

“I know!” she shouts, fed up of being expected to take abuse from yet another angry man. “I’m useless, I know! You tell me often enough! Any time you want me to step down, you just say the word. I’d be more than happy to, believe me!”

He stares at her, and his expression softens. He leans back in his chair. When he speaks again his voice is almost reasonable. “All righ’. I overreacted. Tom’s – well, if Tom was any deeper in shit he’d be bog snorkelling and it’s no’ makin’ my life easy. Tell me why James is so angry at me.”

She takes a deep breath and presses her hands together, trying to regain some composure. She avoids making eye contact as she explains: “He guessed that you helped arrange it. He’s angry that I told you instead of him. And he thinks you talked me into having a termination.”

“I would never-”

“ _I know_! I know you wouldn’t. I tried to explain but he was too upset, he wasn’t listening.”

Malcolm squeezes the bridge of his nose between bony fingers. “He didn’t sound upset, he sounded fuckin’ demented.”

“He was very angry,” she admits. “That’s why I wanted to get the kids out of the house yesterday. I didn’t realise I’d left my phone behind until we were already on the way to my parents’.” She hadn’t even known where she was going when she had first bundled the kids in the car. She’d just wanted to put as much distance between them and James as possible. It was only when she’d stopped off at a service station to let her parents know that she was on her way that she’d realised that her phone must still be wherever James had thrown it after he’d snatched it from her.

“You didn’t try to go to the house, did you?” she asks, remembering Malcolm’s threat.

He shakes his head. “I thought about it – but after my call with the Hulk I thought it might not be a good idea.”

“Thank you, that was – it wouldn’t have been.”

Malcolm stays silent for so long that she looks up to see what he’s doing. He’s just sitting watching her, his fingers steepled. 

“What?”

“Something’s happened.”

“I’ve already told you – James found out about the abortion, we had a fight. I took the kids out and I forgot my phone.”

“Somethin’ else. You’re no’ right – yer all twitchy.”

She hates how well he’s learnt how to read her. “Nothing’s happened. I’m just tired because I had a shitty weekend. I’m sorry about the phone – I’ll make sure it can’t happen again.”

His expression tells her how unconvincing she is, but to her relief Malcolm changes the subject. “Wha’s goin’ on with Ella then?”

Partly out of gratitude for not pressing her and partly because she knows he’ll find out anyway, she tells him. “I’ve withdrawn her from school. I’ll arrange for some private tuition until September, and then she’ll go to the school we were originally planning on sending her to.”

“Why? Could yeh really no’ stick it out to the end of the year? It’s only another 5 weeks.”

“She was being bullied.” Malcolm raises an eyebrow. “This was not just someone straightening her hair, Malcolm! She’s been beaten up, she’s had money taken from her, she’s been hiding food at home because her lunch gets stolen. Not just a couple of times – every single fucking day for months! And it turns out that some of the teachers knew about it and they turned a blind eye because _I_ got their headmaster sacked. So Ella is never setting foot in that place again, and if you want me to resign over it I will!”

“Poor kid,” says Malcolm mildly.

It’s such an untypical response for him that she assumes it’s meant sarcastically. “Are you mocking me? Are you mocking _Ella_ for being bullied?”

“No. I’m saying that must have been upsetting for her.” He looks a little offended that she thought otherwise.

“She’s devastated.” Tears prick in her eyes just thinking about the naked relief on Ella’s face when Nicola had confirmed that she wouldn’t be going to school that morning.

Malcolm leans forward, his voice soft. “The thing is, some wannabe revolutionary from the school’s already told the Guardian about you withdrawing her – says you think your daughter’s too good for state school.”

Of course they had. And of course Malcolm knew all about it before he even asked her. “But I don’t think—”

Malcolm holds up a hand to indicate that she should allow him to continue. “So I plan to advise the Guardian, the teacher, the board of governors, and any other fucker looking to repeat that slanderous accusation, that if they spread that story around then we’ll be issuing a statement. One in which I describe how the school failed to intervene when Ella became a victim of a systematic bullying campaign. And that’s in nobody’s interests – the school looks bad and the Guardian has to criticise an underfunded inner city school instead of banging on about the benefits of comprehensive education.”

 She stares at him. “Really?”

“Would yeh suggest a different approach?”

Nicola shakes her head. “No, that sounds excellent, that would be—thank you Malcolm. Thank you.”

For the briefest of moments he flashes her a conspiratorial grin. Then his face resumes its usual mildly terrifying expression. “Yeh can thank me by keepin’ a low profile for the rest of the week. The only thing I want to hear anyone saying about you is how good you are at downward facing dog.”

Sodding lunchtime yoga. There’s no way she can get out of it now – not after Malcolm’s just whisked her neck off the chopping block. She nods in agreement. “I’ll try, I promise.”

She stands, gathering her coat and handbag, and he follows her to the door. As she reaches out to turn the handle he grasps her forearm lightly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed those bruises by the way.”

She pulls her hand back, hiding it under her coat. She had thought that her blouse would be enough to cover the livid mark James’ hand had left on her wrist. Obviously not. She gazes up at him. His expression is intense.

“Remember what I said before,” he tells her, his voice very quiet. “If you ever change your mind about divorcing that twat, you let me know. The Party’ll take care of everything.”

His hand ghosts over her hair, so quickly and softly that she’s not sure whether it’s intentional. And then it is on her shoulder, guiding her gently out of his office. The door closes behind her and she stands in the corridor, reeling from the unexpected turn in the conversation.

“Are you all right Nicola?” asks Julius Nicholson, stopping on his way past to frown at her. “You look rather discombobulated.”

“What?” she asks.

Julius smiles in a manner that he probably doesn’t intend to be patronising but most definitely is. “Not to worry, we all feel like that sometimes after talking to Malcolm.”

* * *

James comes home part way through dinner that evening. He is subdued and evidently still monstrously hungover. She fetches him a plate and he makes a half-hearted attempt to talk with the children, asking them what they’d done the previous day and then nodding at appropriate intervals during Josh’s excited account of the walk they’d taken the dogs on.

After the younger three children have gone to bed he seeks her out. He leans against the kitchen island while she is stacking the dishwasher.

“We need to talk about Ella,” she tells him, without turning to look at him. Her voice sounds flat and hard.

“Ella’s not my priority right now,” he says.

“Well she should be. She should have been both of our priority months ago and she’s suffered because we took our eye off the ball.”

“Nicola.”

His rare use of her full name makes her straighten up and turn to him. He knows she hates nicknames – calling her Nicky or Nic is his idea of a joke. One that stopped being funny after the second time he’d made it. He only uses Nicola he really wants her attention. “What?”

“Would you just calm down? You’re jumpy.”

“I am not jumpy!” she snaps. “And I’m not twitchy or fucking tense.” And now she’s undermined her own point beautifully. She sighs. “You’re not the first person to point out I’m a little on edge today,” she admits.

“It’s not surprising. You didn’t exactly have a relaxing weekend.”

“Do you even _remember_ the weekend?”

He has the decency to look ashamed. “Not all of it, no.” He steps towards her and then stops when she backs away, holding his hands up appeasingly. “I do remember getting home on Sunday morning though. I know I was out of line. It's that bloody snake Malcolm – he presses all my buttons.”

“Malcolm wasn’t there, James. You can’t blame what happened on him.”

“I’m trying to explain how I felt.”

“How you felt doesn't justify what you did,” she hisses. “Nothing does.”

He winces. “I was completely off my face – I’d been on a massive bender. I would never be like that normally – you know I’m not like that normally.”

“You hurt me!" she says, whispering fiercely in case Katie is close enough to the kitchen to overhear. "You hurt me and then you started smashing up the bloody bedroom. It was terrifying James. And one of the kids could have walked in at any moment – did you even _think_ about that?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything. I was just angry.”

She rubs her forehead, tracing her fingers over the scar on her temple, as fragmented images resurface. James ranting vile things at her, being pinned down by the weight of his body, the stench of alcohol and unwashed hair, his howl of rage as he'd smashed the mirror. She’d frozen. For what seemed like an age she had been paralysed, trying to process what was going on. When the adrenaline had finally kicked in she'd just run. Pieced together an outfit from what she could find in the clean laundry pile and all but hauled the children out of the house.

James points to the marks on her wrist. “Did I do that?”

She nods. “Yes. And this.” She lifts her sleeve to show him a deep band of bruising around her right arm, “And this” – she pulls the neck of her jumper to one side, revealing a scabbed over bite mark on her shoulder and a livid purple mark across her clavicle. “There’s more, too.”

“Christ.” He reaches out to touch her wounded shoulder and she jerks away. “I’m sorry Nicola.”

He’s not usually so ready to acknowledge fault. Only that one time, when the Albany story was published. She knows she should try to forgive him - to acknowledge the fact that he recognises he's in the wrong - but part of her is angry that he wants her to let it go because of nothing more than a few contrite words. “It can’t happen again James. We’ve been married for twenty years and yesterday, for the first time ever, I was _frightened_ of you. You’re bigger than me and…I knew there was nothing I could do to stop you and I was – it was just…” she pauses, trying to compose a sentence that she can actually bring herself to say. “It can't happen again.”

James nods gravely. “I know.”

“If you ever come into this house in that state again – or, heaven forbid, if the children ever see you like that – then it’s over. No second chances.”

“I understand.”

“And if you _ever_ try to force me—”

“It won’t happen again. It was inexcusable.”

She nods. “Okay. Right. Well that’s something, I suppose.”

They stand, not quite looking at each other and not quite able to look away. It’s awkward, but for once she doesn’t feel compelled to be the one that smooths things over.

“Why don’t you come to bed. To sleep,” he clarifies when he sees her incredulous expression. “I’m not stupid enough to think that a roll in the hay will fix this.”

“I’m not sure I want to sleep in the same room as you.” She’s barely even set foot in their bedroom since Sunday morning. The sight of the bed and the ruined furniture makes her feel sick. Katie’s back home this evening though, and she’s not sure she can face asking her teenage daughter if she can share a bedroom with her.

“Do you want me to sleep in the study?” James offers.

She looks at him in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“If you want.”

She nods. “I-I think I would. For tonight at least.”

“Okay, fair enough." He hesitates, and then says sheepishly "Could you uh-could you help me put a cover on the spare duvet?”

She allows him the ghost of a smile. “You’re bloody useless.”

“I know.”


	5. In the kingdom of the blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has gone up from 5 to 7 - it turns out Nicola has more to say than I anticipated! Enjoy!

She does her best to keep her head down at work. The first lunchtime yoga session is…not an unmitigated disaster. Not for her at least.

She’s arranged for her own yoga teacher to take the classes. Cynthia is delighted to be invited to lead sessions for a group of high profile politicians in an actual Government building. Nicola doesn’t like to point out that anyone truly influential would be too busy to attend. Someone has to derive some pleasure from the whole gruesome exercise.

Peter Mannion doesn’t show up, but Stewart Pearson does. Wearing harem pants and a too-tight T-shirt with a mandala on the front. A small group of carefully selected press have also been invited to cover the first session. Malcolm shows up to keep them in line. “Nice outfit,” he tells her as she huddles nervously in the corner of the room. “Dignified. Unlike some twats,” he adds, casting a glare at Stewart.

After his very strong views about her clothes the last time she had done this, she has selected the dullest yoga gear in her wardrobe. The fact that she needs long sleeves and a high neckline to cover the fading bruises on her arms and shoulder had at least helped narrow down the choice. She’s wearing black leggings and a black vest, with a burgundy jacket zipped over the top. If Malcolm thinks it odd that she’s wearing a jacket to an exercise class he doesn’t comment.

“You ready to say a few words?”

She nods, pretty sure that her face says otherwise.

“Don’t worry, yeh’d have to be a moron to fuck this one up. Glad everyone could be here, healthy choices are good, hope they enjoy the class. Boom.”

“Boom,” she repeats, without enthusiasm.

“And try to act like yeh want to be here. You look like you’re goin’ to a fuckin’ funeral.”

“There’s still time for that,” she mutters.

Stewart approaches and she suppresses a groan. “Great initiative this, Nicola,” he tells her with nauseating enthusiasm. “Just the kind of thing we need to unlock the visionary capabilities of our country’s leaders and take Team Britannia to the next level of attainment.”

“That was exactly what I thought,” she says, shooting a glare at Malcolm.

“Aren’t you taking part, Malcolm?” Stewart asks. “You strike me as the kind of person who could do with releasing some negative energy and opening himself to the cosmic dance of universe.”

“If I ever decide I want to get fucked up by the universe it’ll involve hallucinogens and an orgy,” Malcolm informs him. “I’m goin’ to lay down the ground rules for the hacks,” he adds to Nicola.

He abandons her with Stewart and Nicola struggles for some small talk. “Have you, err, have you done any yoga before, Stewart?”

“I’m a disciple of Narayan Dhakal. I studied under him in Nepal. I still maintain my practice – it helps me channel universal truth and positivity into my work.”

“Oh right, well that’s good.”

“Which school do you follow, Nicola?”

“Um, Highgate Community Centre. Although I think Cynthia does 1:1 sessions too.” Stewart frowns. “Excuse me,” she apologises, “but I need to get things started. Perhaps you’d like to set your mat up at the front so other people can learn from you?”

He smiles. “Of course, I’d be happy to help guide the rest of the group on their journey to self-actualization.”

“I’m sure everyone would appreciate that.”

She has a quick word with Cynthia, making sure she has everything she needs, until she gets the thumbs up from Malcolm.

“Um, excuse me,” she says to the assembled group of about twenty mid-level MPs and political hangers on. “I’m err, I’m really pleased that you’re all able to join us for this first lunchtime session. Healthy Choices isn’t just about whether to have another biscuit, or to walk instead of taking the bus – although obviously those are both worth thinking about. It’s about changes in lifestyle that improve wellbeing and quality of life. So I’m glad you’ve all been able to make some time in your busy schedules, and I hope you find these sessions helpful. And that perhaps other colleagues will be inspired to organise their own activities – be it a football league or a walking club. So without further ado, let me introduce Cynthia Crawley, who will be leading the class today.”

The group clap politely and she beats a hasty retreat to her mat – discretely tucked on the far left hand side of the middle row, as far away from the cameras she could manage. She dares to glance at Malcolm to see his reaction to her speech and he gives her a small nod. _Not bad_.

She tries her best to block out what’s going on in the rest of the room and focus on what she’s doing, but it’s difficult when she keeps hearing the snapping of camera shutters. And Stewart is making ridiculous exaggerated breathing noises as he moves through the poses. She looks over to him at one point to see him wobbling frantically as he tries to execute an advanced variation on warrior pose. Slightly reassured that she is not the most absurd person in the room, she returns her focus to her own, less ambitious, stance.

They’ve nearly made it through the hour when the wheels come off. Cynthia is taking the group through some cool down stretches when there is a yell at the front of the room, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. She looks up and sees Stewart rolling on the floor, clutching his leg.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, both she and Cynthia running over to him.

“My Achilles!” groans Stewart. “I think it’s snapped. I’m in agony!”

“Let me take a look,” says Cynthia, prying his fingers away and gently manipulating the joint. Nicola glances around at the rest of the group, who are standing on their mats and watching with interest.

“It hasn’t snapped,” Cynthia says, with the minimum decent amount of sympathy. “You’ve just strained it. You were a bit ambitious with some of the variations you attempted. Let’s step outside and do some stretches. Nicola, perhaps you could finish the warm down.”

Nicola looks at her in horror. “Um, okay,” she says dubiously. “If you think that’s a good idea.”

“Just do some back stretches and a relaxation exercise – it’s nothing you haven’t done before,” Cynthia tells her, helping Stewart to his feet. “You’ll be fine.”

She may have done the exercises before, but she's never led them. Especially not with an audience of journalists. Her body trembling with terror, she takes Cynthia’s place at the front of the room. There is a flurry of shutter snaps and she sees one of the TV cameramen raise his camera from the standby position and adjust the focus. “Uh, right,” she says, looking hastily away from the press pack. _Try to forget they're there._ A strategy she's never managed to pull off before. “Sorry about the interruption. Let’s err, let’s pick up where we left off. Feet shoulder width apart, make sure your weight is balanced evenly across your feet and take a deep breath, releasing the tension in your shoulders as you breathe out.”

She makes it to the end of the class and tries to flee the room as quickly as possible, but Malcolm forces her to do an interview on camera for BBC News. She manages some soundbites about the health benefits of taking time out of the work day to exercise, and gives a rather jittery giggle when asked whether she plans to retrain as a yoga teacher. “I’m not sure my skills are very well suited to teaching yoga. I’ll stick to politics.”

Behind the cameraman Malcolm smothers a laugh – presumably at the idea that her skills are in any way suited to being a politician. Then, mercifully, it is over and she is able to roll up her mat and put her shoes back on.

“That went well,” Malcolm tells her as the room empties.

She glares at him. “It was a disaster. We didn’t even get to the end of the first class without a casualty.”

“It was brilliant - couldn’t have gone better. You looked like yeh knew what yeh were doin’ and the Opposition looked like poncy twats.” He’s actually grinning. It’s probably the most fun he’s had at work in a while. Possibly the most fun he's had _anywhere_ recently - she hardly ever sees Malcolm smile these days. If nothing else, at least she’s cheered him up.

* * *

The yoga class makes the tail end of the six o’clock news. As Malcolm predicted, Stewart’s pratfall is played for laughs while Nicola comes across as earnest and more-or-less competent. Needless to say, this doesn’t stop her daughters from finding it hilarious.

“Your face when they asked you to take over the class!” says Katie, doubled over with laughter.

“And when you gave that speech at the beginning! You looked like you were going to wet yourself!” adds Ella.

Even Tilly – normally so loyal – pipes up “Your face was very red Mummy – were you embarrassed or is it because you aren’t very fit?”

She draws some comfort from the fact that Ella is smiling and laughing again. It doesn’t comfort her enough that she wants to sit and be mocked by three children at once though. She leaves them making up “comic” headlines about her and retreats to the hall. She slumps on the stairs, revelling in the tranquillity of a room with no people in it. Even if it is full of a dozen pairs of shoes and various discarded items of children's clothing.

She sends Malcolm a message. _Did I look nervous on the news?_

 _No more than usual_ he replies.

That's something - Malcolm would hardly sugar coat it if she’d come across like an idiot.

 _Anything wrong?_ he adds after a moment.

_No more than usual._

Her thoughts are interrupted by Josh’s Batmobile crashing into her foot. The toy’s solid and bulky and it bloody hurts.

“Ow Josh! What have I told you about playing with toys in the hall? It’s dangerous - someone could trip over them.”

“Sorry,” says Josh, hovering in the doorway of the study. He’s wearing his Batman T-shirt, a black cape, and a forlorn expression. James' efforts with the children have mainly been focused on Josh, and he's loved having a man to play with him. But James hasn’t played with him – has barely even spoken to him as far as she can tell – since the previous week. Going from being the focus of his father’s attention to being completely ignored is confusing for him.

She softens her expression into a smile. “Shall I come and play Batman with you?”

“You don’t know how,” points out Josh.

“You could show me.”

He hesitates and then nods. “Okay.”

Nicola leans down to pick up the Batmobile and frowns. Josh has loaded various cargo into the passenger seat: an assortment of plastic accessories that came with the action figure, a metal rugby ball that looks as though it has snapped off one of James’ trophies, a rolled-up length of string – presumably for restraining bad guys - and a little plastic pouch, shoved into the footwell.

“What’s this?” she asks him, pulling out the bag. It contains fine, white powder and looks an awful lot like the kind of thing she’s seen drug dealers selling on TV crime dramas.

“Special sugar that makes you stronger,” Josh tells her.

This answer does nothing to reassure her. “Where did you get it, Josh?”

“In Daddy’s desk. He keeps it next to his secret phone.”

Her stomach clenches at this response. She’d expected him to tell her he’d got it from a kid at school or found it in the park, not in their house. “Can you show me?”

She follows him to James’ desk. Josh climbs onto the chair, reaches under a rugby trophy and withdraws a key, which he uses to unlock the top drawer. “In here.”

It’s every sordid stereotype rolled into one. The drawer contains a bundle of twenty pound notes, a mobile phone that she has never seen before, VIP cards for a dozen very seedy looking nightclubs, and a metal tin of the kind that cooler students than her used to roll joints from when she was at university.

“It’s from here,” says Josh, pointing at the tin.

“Don’t touch it!” she tells him, snatching it up.

“Why?” asks Josh.

“It might not be very good for you.”

“It’s just special sugar and some straws, Mummy.”

She opens it and finds that Josh is right: it contains five more bags of powder, a mirror, a razor blade and several lengths of cut down drinking straw. For fuck’s sake! She’s come to accept that James takes drugs when he’s out, but it had _never_ occurred to her that he would bring them into their home. She drops the tin and the bag of power from the Batmobile back in the drawer, locks it and tucks the key in her pocket.

“Don’t do that Mummy!” Josh protests, making a grab at her arm. “Daddy will be mad at me.”

“He won’t be mad at you, sweetheart,” Nicola tells him, lifting him off the chair. She bends down so that she’s at his eye level. “Now Josh, this is very important. Has Daddy ever given you any special sugar?”

Josh shakes his head. “I’m not allowed. I’m not even supposed to know where the key is.”

Thank God - that’s something at least. “Have you ever seen Daddy take any? Is it him that told you what it’s for?”

Josh nods hesitantly. “Once, but I wasn’t meant to. I was playing hide and seek and he didn’t know I was there.”

“Have you ever taken any?”

Josh looks shifty. _Oh Christ._ Of course a little boy wants to try something he's seen his father doing. "Maybe just a little bit, to see what it was like?” she suggests.

Josh nods, not sure whether he’s in trouble. “A little bit. But it doesn’t taste very nice and it made me feel sick. I think it’s just for grown-ups - like olives.”

His naivety makes her even angrier at James. “It’s not even for grown-ups, love. Daddy shouldn’t have been taking it - it’s very bad for you.”

“Then why does he have it?” he asks, his forehead creasing.

“Because sometimes Daddy does bad things,” she tells him, thinking of the hand shaped bruises imprinted on her hips.

“Because the alien’s back again?”

“No love, he’s not an alien. He’s just Daddy.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, looking at her tearfully. "Why would Daddy do bad things?

She wishes she knew. More to the point, why does she keep letting Daddy do bad things? She scoops him into a hug, carrying him into the hall - she wants him as far away from the desk and its contents as possible. “Don’t worry about it Josh. I’m going to sort it out, I promise.

"You won't tell Daddy I showed you, will you?

"You're not going to get into trouble. It was good that you told the truth."

Josh looks uncertain. "But Daddy's scary when he's mad, Mummy."

"Daddy won't be mad at you, love. If he's mad at anyone, it'll be me. Now, shall we play Batman in the garden?” She's not going to let Josh play in the study with James' drugs stash a few feet away.

“Really?” asks Josh, excitement edging out tears as she’d hoped it would. After the loss of several toy cars down the drain he is strictly prohibited from taking any toys outside except balls and his Nerf gun.

“Just this once,” she confirms. "But on the lawn, not the patio."

"Okay," he agrees enthusiastically.


	6. They'll hurt you and desert you and take your soul if you let them

James plays rugby on a Thursday evening so she doesn’t expect him back until after the younger children have gone to bed. Once she has said goodnight to Josh and Tilly and suggested to Ella and Katie that they watch a film in Katie’s room, she packs an overnight bag for James and deposits it by the front door. Then she waits.

Over the course of the evening her anger hardens into a tight ball of rage. She’s been stupid, she can see it now. She finally understands all the comments her friends and family have made over the years - the warnings she had dismissed because they'd got the wrong end of the stick, or they didn't understand how their relationship worked, or they didn’t know what James is really like. It turns out they had known exactly what he's like. She’s the one who hadn’t seen it because she is too insecure, too frightened of change and too bloody _naïve_ to have realised that he has been taking advantage of her.

He wants someone at home who takes care of the house, strokes his ego, is available for sex whenever the mood takes him, and who will tolerate his selfishness. She's let herself be that person because she is still in love with him - she has been clinging onto the delusion that he is who he was when she’d first met him. She wonders now if he was ever who she thought he was. She’s furious at herself for going along with it for so long and even more furious at James for the way that he has treated their family. Never again, she resolves. She might be a useless wife and a useless politician, but she _will_ be a good mum.

It’s after ten when she hears the front door open. When she goes through to the hall he is crouching down to untie his shoelaces. "Sorry I'm back late. It's Dave's birthday so we went to the club house for a few drinks after practice."

“Don’t bother taking your shoes off.”

He looks up. His face is flushed. “They’re muddy.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re going straight back out - you’re not staying here tonight.”

He rolls his eyes. “For heaven’s sake Nicky, what now? You can’t still be angry about the weekend?”

She takes a step towards him, keeping her voice low. “I found Josh playing with a bag of cocaine this afternoon.”

James abandons his shoelaces and strands up. “How did he get hold of that?”

“How do you think? He found it in your desk – along with your ‘secret phone’ and your stash of twenties.”

James' expression is calm and unconcerned. “He shouldn’t have been poking around in there.”

“Are you serious?” she asks incredulously. “Josh is not the one in the wrong! He’s five - he’s curious about everything. Especially anything to do with you, because even though you totally ignore him most of the time he _idolises_ you. It should _never_ have been there for him to find”

“Nicky, I know you’re upset—”

“Upset?! I’m furious! Our five year old son has tried cocaine because he’s seen _you_ taking it! I can’t believe you brought drugs into our house – that you _keep_ drugs in our house!”

He takes a step towards her, trying to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Nicola, calm down.”

She bats him away. “No! I don’t understand how your brain is wired that you think this is okay!”

“You’re blowing it out of proportion.”

“That’s what you _always_ say! This is _not_ out of proportion – I can’t believe you’ve done this to us!”

He sighs. “You can’t wrap the kids up in cotton wool for ever. They’ll find out about drugs at some point. At least it’s happened at home and not because they've been taking mystery tablets in a nightclub toilet or shooting up heroin with a dirty needle.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t even know where to _start_ pointing out how stupid that is! This is not like letting them try a sip of your beer - there shouldn' _t be_ drugs in the house! The kids shouldn't be seeing you when you’ve just snorted a line of cocaine. I told you that if they ever see you in the state you were in this weekend then it’s over and I meant it.”

“That was a one-off Nicky. And don’t act as though you had no part in it – it would never have happened in the first place if you hadn't gone behind my back.”

She stares at him, momentarily lost for words.

“I want you to leave,” she manages eventually, surprised by how calm and firm her voice sounds.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He’s not taking her seriously. He _never_ takes her seriously. “I mean it – I don’t trust you any more.”

“We’ll talk about it properly when you’ve calmed down.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

James’ voice starts to betray his impatience with the conversation. “You’ll change your mind the moment you’re by yourself – you always do. You wouldn’t last five minutes without me.”

“I’ve managed without any meaningful support from you for the last twenty years,” she scoffs. “I think I’ll cope. I’ve packed a bag for you. You can come and get the rest of your stuff another time.”

“For Christ’s sake Nicky, it’s ten thirty. Where do you expect me to go?”

“Go to your sister. Or a hotel - I really don’t care, I just want you out of the _fucking_ house!”

“Nicola-”

“I’m serious! I don’t want you here! I don’t want you anywhere near us.”

His mood switches from exasperation to snarling anger so quickly that she finds herself backing away from him. “It’s my fucking house, you neurotic bitch! _My_ house, which I work my arse off to pay for - just like I paid for au pairs and nannies so you could piss around filling out dole forms for scroungers. Which I’m _still_ paying for so you can make a fool of yourself on telly every other week. Christ, you can’t even get on a fucking train! What makes you think you can cope on your own!?”

“At least if I was on my own I wouldn’t have to constantly apologise for your behaviour!” Her back hits the wall and James continues to advance on her, leaning down to shout in her face.

“There have to be some consolations to being married to you!”

She’s too angry to care that he’s trying to intimidate her. Now that she’s finally started to give voice to her frustrations they are flowing out of her. “Being married to me’s never stopped you doing whatever you want – with whomever you want!”

“Maybe if you ever bothered to think about my needs—”

Her laugh is shrill and incredulous. “You’re needs are hardly a mystery, James! Food, shelter, as much sex as you can get – you’re one step removed from a fucking Neanderthal!”

He plants his hand on her shoulder, pressing her into the wall. “Oh really?" he asks, his voice hard. "And how should a Neanderthal react to being ordered out of his own home by a fucking _woman_!?”

She’s trapped, blocked in by his body and craning to see his face. She’s so used to his height and bulk that normally she barely notices it, but suddenly she is very aware of it. She opens her mouth to speak but she’s frozen, her heart hammering and her hands and legs tingling. His hand moves around her neck, thumb resting across the base of her throat, and for the second time in a week she’s afraid of him.

“Well?” he demands, and the only thing she can see in his eyes is anger.

She’s gone too far. Her first instinct when she’s angry is to argue and fight and needle and she’s finally pushed him too far. “James,” she manages, barely more than a whisper. “Stop.”

“If you really think I’m such a caveman,” he hisses, tightening the pressure on her windpipe, “then perhaps I should start acting like one.”

She feels the restriction of her airflow. It’s exactly the same feeling as when she gets in a lift – cramped and suffocating. Her first instinct is to gasp for air and all it does is to lock her rib cage and increase the weight of his grip around her throat.

His eyes are cold. She can’t think – can only buzz with white panic. She's going to die. She's sure she's going to die.

“Get away from her!” There's a blur in the corner of her vision and suddenly the pressure on her throat lifts. “Don’t touch her!” yells Katie, yanking James’ hand away.

James shoves Katie aside. She thuds into the wall and he rounds on her, his body still rigid with anger.

It is this sight that shocks Nicola back into control of her body. “Katie!” she warns, stepping between her husband and her daughter. “Go back upstairs!”

Katie ignores her, moving out from behind her and glaring up at James. “I’ve had enough Dad – we’ve _all_ had enough. We want you to leave.”

There’s a whimper from behind her. Nicola turns and sees the three younger children huddled on the landing, staring at them through the bannisters. Tilly and Josh are clinging to Ella, wide eyed and terrified. James sees them too.

Utter silence descends over the room. Then Tilly buries her face in Ella's shoulder and starts to cry. Nicola hesitates, wanting to go to Tilly but afraid to leave Katie.

“Fine,” James says tightly. “I’ll go.”

He bends down to pick up the overnight bag that Nicola has left by the door. “I hope you’re _fucking_ happy,” he hisses in her face.

Then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him.

She wants to go to the children, or at least to say something to comfort them, but the trembling in her legs is uncontrollable. She slumps to the floor, clawing at the neck of her jumper as though it will somehow reduce the pressure in her chest.

“It’s all right, Mum,” says Katie from somewhere far away. There’s a hand on her hair, gentle and tentative. And then a pair of arms around her shoulders, and then a weight on her lap. Gradually she comes back into her body to find herself cocooned by four children wrapped tightly around her.

* * *

She can’t send them straight back to bed after that. None of them would settle down to sleep, and on a purely selfish level she wants their company. She makes hot chocolate and the five of them pile onto the sofa, snuggled under blankets in a tangle of clinging limbs and warm bodies. No one says much. They’re too shocked, and nothing can – or should – make what has just happened okay.

Gradually Josh and Tilly drift to sleep, and she sees Ella’s eyes starting to droop. She disentangles herself, tucking the blankets around them, and carries the empty cups into the kitchen. Katie follows.

“Are you all right Mum? You’ve got a bruise on your neck.”

She nods. “I’m fine now,” she says hoarsely. “Are you? Did he hurt you?”

Katie shakes her head. “Just a bump.”

“You shouldn’t have interfered love," she tells her, tucking Katie's hair behind her ear. "You could have been really hurt.”

“Mum!" her voice is incredulous. "He was strangling you!”

“He would have stopped,” she says in what she hopes is a reassuring tone. She’s not convinced though - she had seen something in James's eyes that has never been there before. She’s not sure she can put the sense she'd had that she was going to die down to the panic attack alone.

“Ella said something happened on Sunday,” Katie tells her hesitantly. “She says you were scared, and you were bleeding under your jumper when you got in the car.”

Nicola sags against the work surface, scrubbing her face with her hands. You can’t hide anything from children. “Your Dad and I had an argument in the morning. A bad one.”

"Is that how the mirror and the chair in your bedroom got broken?"

"Yes," she admits.

“So he’s finally stopped the superdad act,” says Katie scornfully. “I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.”

She doesn’t reply. She can’t bring herself to defend James any more.

Katie moves so that she is standing right in front of her, looking her straight in the eyes. “I don’t want him to come back, Mum. I know you think it’s better for us if we have our Dad around but it’s not. He’s a dick and he makes everyone miserable, and now he’s started hurting you as well. Please don’t let him come back.”

This at least she has an answer for. “He’s not coming back – I won’t take any more of this.”


	7. Soon you'll hear me knocking at your door

She hasn’t the heart to wake Tilly, Josh and Ella so she leaves them to sleep intertwined on the sofa. It feels wrong to abandon them on the ground floor while she goes to bed upstairs. She fetches a duvet and settles on an armchair.  

She doesn’t sleep. A few times she starts to nod off only to jerk awake, heart pounding. The swelling on her neck makes it feel as though something is pressing on her windpipe, and she keeps thinking that she hears footsteps outside the window or the scrape of a key in the front door. At five thirty she gives up trying. 

When she checks her phone there are four messages from James. A text message telling her he has checked into a hotel near his office is followed by a voicemail left shortly afterwards in which he suggests that she’s over-reacted and they should talk in the morning. Then there are two further voicemails, left at midnight and one thirty am, in which he rants in a slurred voice about what a paranoid, ungrateful bitch she is.  

He rings again while she is getting the kids ready for school. She rejects the call and receives a text message. _I’ve arranged to finish work early. Will come by the house to collect some things. We need to talk_. She doesn’t bother replying. He’ll come anyway, regardless of what she wants. 

She phones in sick, feeling less guilty than she should about lying. She sounds convincing enough: her voice is still hoarse from the damage to her throat. The HR officer coos sympathetically and tells her to rest and drink plenty of hot drinks. Finally, with daylight streaming through the windows and reassured by the knowledge that James is at the office, she manages to sleep. 

She wakes because there is someone at the door, alternately pounding on it with their fists and leaning on the doorbell. Her first thought is that it must be James, but he has a key. She pulls a dressing gown on over her pyjamas and goes to the landing, crouching down to peer at the front door through the bannisters. It’s Malcolm. A very annoyed looking Malcolm. 

“I can see yer feet Nic’la!” he yells through the glass door panel. He carries on banging and with a groan she clasps her dressing gown closed at the neck, trying to hide the bruises that have darkened during the night, and goes downstairs. 

“Where the fuck were you today?” he demands, barging into the hall as soon as she’s opened the door. 

“Malcolm!” she protests. 

“Well?” he asks while she’s still shutting the door behind him. 

“I’m not well,” she tells him, gesturing to her dressing gown and bare feet. “I’ve been in bed.” 

“I’ve been calling yeh all fuckin’ mornin’! Why didn’t you answer yer phone?” 

“I was asleep! I turned my phone on silent so I wouldn’t be _disturbed_ ,” she adds pointedly. “Anyone at DoSAC could have told you where I was.” 

“Aye, they did.” 

“So why are you here Malcolm? Whatever it is, can’t it wait until I’m back in the office next week?” She really, really doesn’t want to have to deal with him today and if James knew Malcolm had been in the house he would go ballistic. 

“I came to see what’s going on.”  

She sighs. “Nothing’s going on, I’m just not well.”  

“Yeh look fine to me.”  

“Oh, you’re a doctor now are you?”  

He bristles at her spiky tone and she can see him lining up a retort. Then he catches himself and pauses. When he speaks again his voice is soft. “I was worried.”

She’s wrongfooted by his sudden switch. Of all the reasons why she thought he might have practically knocked her door down and then accused her (rightly) of skiving, this isn’t it. “Why?” 

“Because,” he explains, stepping closer and looking at her in a most un-Malcolmly way, “when yeh came in late on Monday you had bruises on yer wrist. Today you didn't come in at all. I wanted to make sure yeh were all right.”  

Reflexively, her hand tightens on the collar of her dressing gown. “I’m fine. I’ve just picked up a bug from one of the kids.” 

“Yer a terrible liar, Nic’la.” 

She eyes shy away from his face. His expression is gentle and concerned and it’s too confusing. It’s much easier to deal with Malcolm when he’s shouting and ranting and criticising. When he talks like this she doesn’t know what to do: it makes her feels shy and exposed.  

She turns and walks towards the kitchen. “Come through. I need a drink.” 

* * *

Disappointingly the strongest drink she can justify at two pm is tea, but the act of making it gives her time to collect her thoughts. Malcolm hovers nearby, watching her closely. 

“Here,” she deposits a mug of tea in front of him. Strong with lots of milk and three sugars. 

“Ta.” He makes no move to touch his drink. “Now are yeh goin’ to tell me wha’s happened?” 

She sighs and leans against the counter. “I found out that James has been keeping drugs in the house. I told him to get out.” 

“Tha’s not all.”

“What do you want me to say, Malcolm? We had a terrible argument – one of the worst we’ve ever had. I told him to find somewhere else to sleep for the night and he refused. We argued until we realised the children were watching. Then he agreed to leave.” 

“You’ve got bruises on yer neck, Nic’la.”  

So he’s noticed – he always notices everything. “It’s nothing.” She clasps the neck of her dressing gown closed.  

“It's not nothin'! That fucker's had his hand around yer neck! What else is there?” 

“Nothing!” she insists.   

Malcolm steps in front of her and places his hand lightly on hers where it clasps her lapels. He’s barely touching her, but she still gasps at the contact and the proximity, swallowing the urge to pull away. He’s so close that she can see specks of brown in his eyes.

“Do you trust me, Nic’la?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper.  

She wants to say no, to run – to do whatever she needs to do to shut down this conversation – but his gaze is boring into her. She can’t look away. She knows he’s capable of royally fucking her over - he’s done it enough times professionally. But when it’s come to crises in her personal life she he’s never betrayed her. Quite the opposite: she’s not sure how she would have got through the last few months without him.  

Reluctantly, she nods. 

“Let go then.” 

She takes a steadying breath then releases her grip, letting her hands drop to her sides.  

“Thank you,” he whispers.  

He pushes the gown off her shoulders, revealing her vest and pyjama bottoms. She lowers her gaze to the floor. She already knows what he will see – the livid bruise across her throat, the fading bruises on her collarbone and upper arm, the red imprint of James’ teeth on her shoulder. She doesn’t want to see them again, and she doesn’t want to see Malcolm’s expression while he's looking at them. 

For what feels like forever he says nothing, just stands motionless. Then he pulls the gown back around her shoulders, adjusting it so that it sits snugly. “Those older ones, when did they happen?” 

“Sunday.” 

“After he found out about the abortion?” 

“Yes.” 

“He raped you.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

She looks up in surprise. “Why do you think that?” 

“Because he _bit_ you. That’s not about anger, that's about power. You and the kids – he sees yeh as his property. You went behind his back and he felt like he’d lost control. He wanted to prove that he still owns yeh.” 

She hasn’t thought about it that way. She has been too overwhelmed by the memory and the sensation and the _fear_ to think about why James had done it. It makes sense though. And it makes sense of so much else about their relationship. 

The realisation hits her with an almost physical force. She turns away and braces herself with both hands against the work surface as it buffets her. James always been interested in _having_ a family – having a clutch of well behaved, well dressed children that are good at sport and do well in school. He liked being able to boast that his wife was an MP, and loves the fact that she's a Cabinet Minister. She and the children are accessories – like a Rolex or an Aston Martin. He wants to own them and show them off, but he loses interest when there’s no one around to show them off _to_. 

And then there's the sex, she realises with another wave of horror, clenching her eyes closed. More often than not, sex with James is not loving – it’s about him getting what he wants and her submitting. She shudders at the memory of all those times that being with James has left her feeling sordid and dirty. She'd consoled herself with the thought that at least it meant he still needed her – still wanted her. She mistakes the physical intimacy for love and he knows it: he’s been using it to manipulate her for years.  

She presses her knuckles into her eye sockets _. Stupid. So, so stupid. Stupid, gullible, needy Nicola._ Why hasn't she realised when it's so blindingly obvious? Why does she let herself be used over and over again? 

Malcolm places a hand lightly on her arm, drawing her back into the here and now. “Am I right? Did he force himself on yeh?” 

She nods. Malcolm's always right about fucking everything. She pushes off the counter, turning to face him. She desperately needs him not to see her as weak – or at least not any weaker than he already thought she was. “He’s never done anything like this before – not until this week. We’ve argued – a lot – but he’s never hurt me.” 

“Tha’s not true Nic’la. I’ve seen yeh with yer head cracked open after an argument with him. I’ve seen him throw yeh across a room like a fuckin' rag doll.” 

She shakes her head. “That isn’t the same.” 

“Why not?” 

“It's always been in the heat of the moment. He shoves to get me out of the way because I'm annoying him - usually because I'm deliberately provoking him. This is different.” 

Malcolm’s not saying anything, just watching her intently. She can’t stand the silence. She hates silence: she has to fill it. “I froze. Both times I just froze – I was so afraid that I couldn’t even breathe. I was useless, I just lay there and let him–" She chokes back a sob, unable to finish the thought. “And even when I did eventually try to fight it was no good because he was too strong. I couldn’t make him stop.” She’s shaking at the memory of it, tears pricking in her eyes. She remembers the sensation of being held down, the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to change what was about to happen.  

Malcolm places a hand on her uninjured shoulder, rubbing it gently, but still says nothing.  

“The kids saw. Last night. He only stopped choking me because Katie pulled him off and they saw _everything_. They were terrified. I should have…I shouldn’t have…” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he tells her softly, moving the hand on her shoulder up into her hair and massaging her scalp. The sensation of his fingertips is wonderfully soothing. “Yeh did everything yeh could. Freezin' is survival instinct. He’s stronger than you – if yeh’d tried to fight he might have hurt you even more.” 

“But the children, Malcolm! I shouldn’t have let them see - I should have been protecting them!” 

“Their father’s a fuckin’ psychopath - nothin’ you can do can hide that from them. At least yer still here to look after them and no' lyin' on a slab.” 

 She doesn’t want to need Malcolm - she’s already ashamed of how long she’s allowed herself to be dependent on James. But there’s no one else she can talk to about this. It's such a relief to finally be able to get the jumble of thoughts and feelings out of her head. And Malcolm _understands - s_ he thinks maybe he understands better than she does herself. 

“I’m still frightened,” she admits, unable to meet his eye. “I’m frightened that he’ll come back. I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept thinking that I could hear him. I want it to be over but I’m scared that he won’t let us go without a fight.” 

“He won’t,” Malcolm tells her matter-of-factly. She can’t help the whimper that escapes her throat. “But we’ll make sure you’re safe,” he continues. “We’ll make the house more secure. I’ll get Angus and Douggie to keep an eye on yeh in case the twat tries anythin', and I’ll sort yeh a lawyer. It’ll be all righ' Nic’la, yer not on yer own.” 

His hand is still in her hair and she finds herself leaning into it, rooting herself in the physical sensation. It’s a lifeline in a swirling sea of anxiety. He slides his other hand into her hair as well, his fingers gentle as he massages her scalp, and something inside her breaks at the tenderness of it. She can’t control the tears, or she shaking, or the strange keening noises that are coming out of her mouth. She screws her eyes shut, trying to will it back inside. 

“Shhh,” he says, pulling her closer, letting her rest her forehead on his shoulder. He places one arm around the shoulder and moves his other hand to cradle the back of her head. “Shhh, I’ve got yeh. It’s goin’ to be all right - I’ve got yeh now.” 

* * *

 She loses sense of time. It is strangely cathartic, as though a damn of pressure and tension has burst. For the first time in days she feels safe - at least for a few minutes. Malcolm waits patiently while she makes a wet patch on his shoulder and presses creases into the lapels of his jacket where she clasps them. Eventually she regains control and steps back, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“S’all righ’.”

She turns away, looking for something practical to do. “Your tea’s cold,” she says, touching the side of the mug. “I’ll make you another one. If – if you want to stay?” Of course he doesn't. She's just sobbed all over the man who can't stand crying - _again_. He probably can't wait get away quickly enough.

He just nods though. “Aye, I can stay for a cuppa.”

She freezes as the front door opens and then slams shut. “Nicky!” shouts James from the hall. 

 _Shit_. Her eyes flit to the kitchen clock. It’s only a little after two thirty – she hadn’t expected him so early. She grips Malcolm’s forearms. “He can’t find you here,” she whispers urgently. 

Malcolm looks profoundly unconvinced of the wisdom of this. 

“Nicky?!” James calls again, closer this time.  

“ _Please_ ,” she hisses at Malcolm before moving into the hall. “I’m here."

He hasn’t shaved and his shirt is wrinkled – obviously he hadn’t found anyone willing to iron the clothes she’d packed for him before getting dressed this morning. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he asks without preamble. “And why aren’t you dressed?” 

She sighs. “I haven’t been to work. I didn’t sleep last night and I’ve been trying to catch up.” 

“Well if you weren’t asleep you could have answered when I fucking _called_.” 

“What would have been the point, James? If I want to hear you screaming abuse down the phone I can do it just as well by listening to your voicemails.” 

“I didn’t call to shout at you,” he huffs. “If you’d picked up we could have talked.” 

“Well you’re here now,” she tells him, putting a hand on his arm and trying to draw him towards the living room. “Why don’t we sit down?” 

He doesn’t move. “You’ve been crying,” he says, looking at her with narrowed eyes. 

“Well is it any wonder after what happened last night?” she asks. And then, because she can’t help herself: “The kids were terrified, by the way – thanks for checking. They were afraid to go to bed alone after you left, and Tilly refused to go to school unless I dropped her off again this morning.” 

“They wouldn’t have been so upset if you hadn’t been so hysterical.” 

As though the sight of their father attacking their mother had nothing to do with it! His tone is so dispassionate that she can’t even bring herself to point out the absurdity of his words. Why waste the effort? He’s never going to accept her point of view. She sags against the wall, arms crossed, wondering how quickly she can get this visit over with. 

“Come on then,” he tells her, walking towards the kitchen. 

“What? Where are you going?” she asks, scurrying behind him. 

“To get some lunch. You can talk while I eat. I’m ravenous, and I do still pay for the food around here - along with everything else.” 

“James-” she protests, but it’s too late. He's stopped just inside the kitchen doorway. He and Malcolm are facing off like a pair of Tom cats squaring up to fight over a discarded fish head. 

“I might have known,” says James. “I’ve been out of the house less than twenty four hours and you’re already here, sniffing around. Hoping for a pity fuck, were you?” 

Nicola cringes. Being talked about in that way when she’s actually in the room is…humiliating. 

“Don’t yeh ever think about anythin’ but sex?” demands Malcolm. 

“Why else would you be so interested in _my_ wife?” 

“I wanted to find out why one of my _ministers_ looks like she's done twelve rounds with a fuckin' cage fighter.” 

“Don't be ridiculous, she's fine. It's not like she's been beaten up.” 

“Oh aye, I forgot,” says Malcolm stepping towards him, shoulders squared. “Yeh’ve never hit Nic’la – yer not a violent man, are yeh? Not like me?” 

“I’m _nothing_ like you,” James spits out with venom. 

“Aye, because I’m not an impotent cunt who controls his family through fear because he’s not worthy of their fuckin’ _respect_!” 

“Malcolm,” warns Nicola, recognising that he is on the verge of a massive rant. This is not the way she wanted the afternoon to go. Until James had walked into the kitchen she had still been holding out hope that they could have a rational discussion – that he would be calm when she tells him she wants a divorce.  

Malcolm ploughs on as though she hasn’t spoken. “I never strangled my wife. I never tried to fuckin’ _rape_ her! I don’t _need_ to terrorise a woman to make maeself feel like a man.”

 _Oh Christ_. Before, James knew that she'd talked to Malcolm about the baby. Now he knows that she's told Malcolm far more than that. There’s no way she’ll be able to discuss anything calmly with James now – it’s clear from his red face and his bunched fists that he’s furious. 

“If you’d really been such a good husband, you’d still _have_ a wife! Instead you’re here trying to muscle in on _mine_ like a bloody vulture!” 

“You lost your family years ago!” yells back Malcolm, equally loud and equally aggressive. “You've just had yer head shoved too far up yer arse to realise!” 

She's had enough. She walks over and plants a hand on each of their chests, shoving them apart. “Stop!” 

James and Malcolm turn to her with twin expressions of surprise. 

“This isn’t about your fucking egos! This is about the children feeling secure in their _home_. This is about them having some kind of meaningful family life. This is about you and me -” she gestures at James, “trying to untangle twenty years of marriage without hurting each other even more than we already have. You two having a go at each other isn’t helping! Wave your dicks about and bang your antlers together if you want but I'm not going to stand around while you do it.” 

“Nic’la!” says Malcolm as she walks out of the room. James looks too surprised to manage even that. 

“Marta will be back with the kids at 6. Make sure you’re both gone by then.” She shuts the door behind them so that she doesn’t have to listen to any more of their argument.

Upstairs she changes into jeans and a T-shirt. Then she grabs phone, keys and a cardigan and leaves the house, wanting to put as much distance as she can between herself and James and Malcolm's poisonous rivalry.

There's a park nearby, the one where she's taken restless babies for walks in the hope of lulling them to sleep and taught her children to ride bikes. It's a familiar place - somewhere safe. She finds a bench away from the main path and slumps down.

It’s a bright afternoon – bright enough that she wishes she’d brought her sunglasses. She shades her eyes with her hand and tries to ground herself. She focuses on the sounds of the birds and the sensation of the sun on her skin – diligently applying the techniques she’s been taught over the years to manage anxiety. It might work better if she wasn’t so tired and so tense, and her life wasn’t so close to falling apart. 

“Nicola?” 

She turns at the sound of her name. There’s a man she doesn’t recognise standing a few feet away, pointing a camera at her. One of those big cameras that professional photographers use. The shutter clicks.  

“What are you doing?” she asks in confusion. 

“Markus Jager, the Sun. Do you have any comment on why you’re sitting in a park on a working day covered in bruises, Mrs Murray?” 

Her heart sinks. “No! No, I don’t! And I don’t give you permission to publish those photos!” 

Markus Jager offers her an unapologetic smirk. “I don’t need your permission. You’re in a public place, and your Government hasn’t managed to completely erode freedom of the press just yet. So if you don’t have any comment, I’ll leave you to get on with your day.” 

He winks at her and walks away, swinging his camera as he goes. Nicola hastily pulls on her cardigan. Not that it’s going to make a blind bit of difference now - the damage is already done. She buries her head in her hands. What’s the point? What’s the point of anything? Every time she thinks things can’t get any worse they do. 

Eventually, reluctantly, she pulls out her phone and types a message. _Something else has happened, I need your help_. She hits send and waits for Malcolm to respond.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unhappy families](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441514) by [Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova)




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